


Cracks in the Façade

by Lazarache



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Pining, Post-The Sign of Three, Pre-His Last Vow, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:58:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazarache/pseuds/Lazarache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg felt the atmosphere of the room change as soon as the words left his mouth. The room grew somber and dark, the sole source of color came from Sherlock, who was looking fairly pallid himself.<br/>Sherlock was still looking at his feet. He wasn’t frozen, but he might as well have been. The only movement from him was the rise and fall of his chest, which had slowed down significantly since the beginning of the conversation as though he was attempting to measure out his breathing.<br/>“Sherlock, answer me,” Greg prodded gently. “Are you in love with John?” <br/>Based on a post by whybenedict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks in the Façade

Detective Inspector Lestrade knocked on the door of 221B.

“Sherlock,” he said. “It’s Greg.”

Silence.

“Sherlock,” he tried again, “Mrs. Hudson let me in. She says you haven’t left the flat.” He thought he could hear something stirring on the other side of the door. “Don’t pretend you’re not there.”

“Fine,” Sherlock called from within. “Come in.”

Greg opened the door and really ought not to have been surprised by the disaster that made up the inside of 221B. Papers were strewn everywhere, each seemingly unrelated. From the looks of it, he was running three cases at once. The walls were divided into sections, each used to pin information from different cases. Dirty teacups littered the coffee table and floor around it.

Sherlock himself stood on the couch, pinning yet another paper to the wall.

“You been up all night, then?” Greg asked, as way of greeting.

“Obviously,” he replied, not bothering to look at him. He finished pinning the paper and looked at the wall in full. The white color of the paper contrasted with the dark color of the wall. The spaces between each paper created a collage effect and gave the wall the appearance of cracked glass. After a moment of examination, Sherlock began muttering to himself, plopping down on the couch and closing his eyes.

It was clear to Greg that he would not be an amicable host. “Is there water in the kettle?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock kicked his legs out and stood from the couch and walked to the other end of the flat, presumably to look over another document. Greg, meanwhile, chastised himself for believing that the bastard would have actually _checked_ the kettle for him.

He walked to the kitchen and stopped in front of the kettle, bracing his arms against the counter. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. _God, for once I hope I’m wrong._

* * *

 

Greg had known Sherlock for five years. And with each passing year, he felt that he knew less and less about him. Every case brought out a new part in Sherlock; Greg doubted he would ever fully understand him. But that’s the thing about him, he thinks. He won’t let you know who he is. You just have to see what he isn’t.

Sociopath: noun. A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.

It had taken him a long time to see through Sherlock’s façade, but Greg knew that Sherlock was no sociopath. As soon as he had told him “alone protects me”, Greg knew that Sherlock Holmes was as much a sociopath as he was. Instead, Sherlock was and is a man who is so afraid of being hurt that he pushes everyone away. Which was why he had come here today, and why it was so important.

Sherlock had hurt himself these past few years. And now, he was hurting himself immeasurably,  irrevocably.

Greg may have been preoccupied, but something as large as Sherlock leaving John’s wedding early was not something missed by Greg’s watchful eyes. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock leaving an event early could almost be expected. He could have a short attention span when he wanted to and his priorities were never typical. But this was John. Greg knew how much John meant to him, or at least he thought he did. He didn’t know now that he had heard Sherlock’s speech which did more than just reveal what he wasn’t.

Sherlock wasn’t going to like it, but Greg needed him to tell him what he was, just this once. Greg may not have known much about Sherlock given how long they had known each other, but he knew that he was a man just like anybody else. He had seen him at his lowest point, pallid, almost grey skin and red rimmed eyes which had a crazed look about them; track marks, bruises, and, God, his bloody ribs poking out from malnourishment. And then the trembling, the fevers, the vomiting and scratching— no, Sherlock wasn’t bulletproof. Like any man, he fell down; he made mistakes; he suffered; he was happy…

He had been happy at one time or another, hadn’t he? Greg hoped so.

Sherlock had struggled to remove the man in him. Greg had seen him try. Try as he might, he’ll never be able to, he thought. For all his brains, can’t see that a façade can never fully replace something. You can’t put on a mask if you don’t have a face.

* * *

 

Lestrade emerged from his reverie and checked the kettle, which fortunately was half-full. He flipped the switch and leaned against the counter. Sherlock shuffled about the room, apparently looking for something.

Greg watched him for a moment. Indestructible my arse. Whatever that speech was to Sherlock had given him that same look that Greg saw in him years before. Where his body had been protesting his pain, his eyes now did the same. And, if he was honest with himself, Sherlock’s eyes looked glassy—as though at any minute his façade would shatter and Greg would be helpless to watch him battle with the world without the mask. He had left it so long, it seemed to be part of his face; but in these moments, Greg could see his true character, as transparent as the glassy film in his eyes. He could hardly stand it. Sod the tea, he thought, I’ll talk to him now.

No sooner had he thought this than the kettle had begun to whistle. He stopped it and poured out the hot water, added the bag.

“Sherlock, when was the last time you ate something?” he asked as he took out a second mug.

“Not hungry,” came the reply.

“Don’t say I didn’t offer.”  
Greg resumed preparing his tea and after a minute, took out the bag. He heard his footsteps approaching.

“You’re here early on a Monday morning, when you should be at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock began, leaning on the archway of the kitchen. “You have places to be, yet you’ve bothered to make tea and you’ve hardly spoken to me. So you’re either using me as an excuse to avoid work or you want to talk to me about something uncomfortable, so you’re delaying it as long as possible.”

“Sher-”

Sherlock continued. “You wouldn’t come here to avoid work because you’re behind and the Chief Superintendent wants an excuse to discredit me. And you offered to make me tea, which given the situation, is British for “I want to talk to you about something but you won’t like it”.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child, and I don’t like most things. So you should just get on with whatever you’re going to say and go to work. It won’t affect the outcome of my response at all, I can assure you.”

“And you’re deducing me to try to make me uncomfortable so I’ll leave.” He looked at him, then sighed. “I’m trying to be subtle for your sake.”

“Subtlety is for people who have time on their hands, which you don’t. Get on it with it, then.”

Greg looked away at a collection of glass beakers. “God, Sherlock, you’re not making it easy.” He took a sip of his too-hot tea to give himself a moment to compose himself. “I came here to see how you were doing.”

“That’s all? Well, I can assure you I’m fine. I have three cases, two of which will be solved when I find the connection between them. The last is solved already, but I’m conducting further research on the subject. Formaldehyde. Unfortunately I think I deleted the details of the substance at some point. There hasn’t been enough cases with it.” There was a short pause. “You may leave now, since you’ve gathered your information.”

“That’s not what I came here for.” He took another sip of his tea and cringed. It was practically boiling. “I came here to talk to you about the wedding.”

If Greg had so much as blinked, he would have missed the flash that showed in Sherlock’s eyes at the word “wedding”.

“Why don’t you talk to John? It’s his wedding— Oh, he’s away on sex holiday. I suppose you can wait for him.”

“Christ, Sherlock, don’t be so thick!” He exhaled. “Look, you seemed a bit upset at the wedding. I just wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Greg looked down into his tea. "I’m your friend. I know when something’s wrong.” He paused and put his hand over his mouth for a moment. God, this wasn’t easy. “What I’m about to ask you I only ask because I’m your friend and I care about you too much to see you get hurt.”

Greg looked back up at him. “Your best man speech… It wasn’t just a speech, was it?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

After it was apparent that he wouldn’t speak, Greg began again, taking a step closer to him.“Sherlock, we’ve known each other for some time and you should know that you can always talk to me if you need it. We’ve been through a lot together. But I can’t help you if you don’t help me. Answer my question.”

Sherlock looked down at his feet.“No,” he answered quietly. “It wasn’t.” Greg was sure that he had never heard him speak so quietly.

“Okay,” Greg nodded as he spoke in a quiet tone, nearly as low as Sherlock’s. He looked down at his tea again before he looked up at Sherlock. “I need to know, Sherlock. Are you in love with John?”

Greg felt the atmosphere of the room change as soon as the words left his mouth. The room grew somber and dark, the sole source of color came from Sherlock, who was looking fairly pallid himself.

Sherlock was still looking at his feet. He wasn’t frozen, but he might as well have been. The only movement from him was the rise and fall of his chest, which had slowed down significantly since the beginning of the conversation as though he was attempting to measure out his breathing.

“Sherlock, answer me,” Greg prodded gently. “Are you in love with John?”

A heartbeat’s rest, and then— “I-” he took a breath before he looked up at Greg. “Completely and madly,” he finished with an exhale. His eyes shone with unshed tears. Clearly he had never admitted this to anyone, perhaps not even himself.

“Oh Sherlock,” Greg whispered before he put his tea down and hugged him. “Why didn’t you tell him?” he asked in that same quiet tone.

Sherlock swallowed and looked at the wall in front of him. “I wanted him to be happy.” He felt his voice threaten to choke, so he closed his mouth and decided not to tell Greg about how he saw John look at Mary, and how John used to come over for takeaway but now he had late shifts and dates and nights out at the pub and sex holidays and and _and_. He didn’t tell Greg how he couldn’t do that to John Watson, not John “I’m not gay” Watson. Not after the stag night brought his hopes up only to crush them to the ground. Not after his return. Not after John didn’t ask him how, but why he did what he did, and when he looked at him like he was Mycroft and punch him and push him to the ground. No. He won’t tell John.

Greg let him go, but put a hand on his shoulder. “But where does that leave you?”

Sherlock looked at him as though no one had ever asked him that. Greg swore that he saw his lip tremble. His façade was gone, and it was beautiful.

“I-” he began. His eyes shone with struggle. Would he remain under his façade, safe and hidden under a cold and calculating veneer, or would he throw it away and reveal the face underneath?

Greg looked at him somberly, hopefully. He saw the decisions going through his mind; he could only hope he picked the right one.

Sherlock’s face remained in confusion for another moment before he spoke. His eyes came to an abrupt dullness. “I have a case to finish.” He set his jaw and walked back into the living room, leaving Greg disappointed but not surprised.

Greg dumped his tea into the sink, his appetite completely dissipated. He walked back into the living room, where Sherlock resumed his earlier position of standing on the couch. He stopped at the foot of it and looked up at him. “I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk.”

Sherlock was silent as he put a hand beneath his chin. Greg sighed.

“Bye, Sherlock.”

“Hm,” came the response.

Greg opened the door and walked out. Before he closed it, he took a final look into the flat.

Sherlock was still standing on the couch, facing the wall. A single tear ran down his right cheek and dug into his mask, leaving a sliver of his true self in its wake.

Greg opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. He needs to figure it out himself, I suppose. He closed the door and shook his head.

“Good luck, you poor bastard,” he muttered, walking down the stairs.

Upstairs, Sherlock trembled as he wiped his cheek. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face the world without his façade. He took out his phone and texted Lestrade, from right where he was.

_The cases were connected. It was the mother. She stabbed her son because she thought it was her husband. The weapon was a shard of glass, which she tried to put back in the window. Obviously delusional. SH_

Greg read the text as he sat on the tube. He laughed mirthlessly. How fitting.

_Ta. See you soon. Greg_

Sherlock never read the text. He had thrown his phone against the mirror above the fireplace minutes before. He admired his handiwork for a moment before approaching the mantlepiece, covered in glass shards. He reached behind the remnants of the mirror where there was a hole in the wall. Inside was a small bag, spoon, and a needle.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to no one in particular. He walked out, just as he was, in hopes of finding a new façade in the needle before him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a post by whybenedict. Here's the link. Enjoy the angst. http://whybenedict.tumblr.com/post/106800707624/lestrade-sherlock-answer-me-lestrade-are-you  
> edit: This is my first time posting on ao3 so I messed up the formatting. It should be up and running now.


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